Puppet
by FreeBelovedArmy
Summary: He was nothing more than a puppet - a tool for his master to use and play with. But he didn't mind. No, so long as his master continued to love him, he would do anything for him. Even kill. Just like a perfect doll should.


The sharp, metallic scent of blood is all the petite Englishman can sense as he pants softly, his breath coming out in short, frantic gasps as he tries desperately to fill his lungs with lost oxygen. The room he resides in, small and closed off from any possible intruders, is dark; the only offered light being the tiny sliver of moonlight that manages to filter through the crack between two curtains. But the blonde's eyesight had adjusted to the lack of light several minutes earlier, and the stretching shadows no longer hinder his sight, leaving him with very few obstructions to examine his surroundings. The room is, shockingly enough, quite simple, with only a few basic items off furniture littering around. For a moment he wonders if perhaps this is the wrong home, but a quick examination of the two poor individuals on the ground quenches that fear, and he concludes he must not have known them as well as he may have thought. He turns back to his examination of the room, taking into account the placement of all the furniture, and a soft smile pulls on his lips as he sees how disorganized it is. A bed, which once held pure white sheets, lies in the north-west corner of the room, its bedclothes untidy and stained with various lovely patterns of crimson. There's only enough space between it and the west wall for a bed-side table to be squeezed in, the drawers of the tiny wooden unit pulled out and the assortments of items that once rested on it in a mess. Its counterpart, on the opposite side of the bed, is in no better condition. Just a few feet away from the second small cabinet lies a rather large closet, integrated into the wall. The pale door, decorated with an assortment of designs in a beautiful red, is slightly ajar, and another smile tugs on the blonde's lips as he remembers the earlier attempt from one of his lovely hosts to try and hide in the closet. It had been a futile effort, but cute none the less. His beloved would have been so pleased to witness it.

The remaining items are a desk, lying directly across from the bed against the south wall, and a clock that rests itself right above the room's door. The desk is in a state, all the previous documents that had resided on it strewn around the room, while the lamp lies in shatters along the smooth surface of metal. Almost everything, from the wood of the bed-side tables to the paperwork scattered everywhere, is covered in a dark, crimson liquid, unmistakeably blood. The once pale beige walls are now stained with the lovely liquid, and as the Englishman examines them curiously he notices that it almost looks as though he created art, the drying splatters creating surprisingly intricate patterns against the light surface. For a small moment pride wells in his heart, and a tiny voice in his mind asks him if his master would be please with his work. His master, his lover, has always been exceptionally fond of art – and remarkably talented at it too, of course. So the thought of receiving praise for his unintentional painting fills the Englishman with excitement.

Suffocating silence is all the Englishman can hear now that the agonized screams of his master's enemies has faded away, and although the complete absence of noise unnerves him – he's never been good with absolute silence, something his beloved knows far too well – he waits without complaint, knowing the one he wishes for will arrive soon. After all, he promised he would be here two hours after the blonde arrived; he still had three more minutes before that time came. The small male does his best to keep himself occupied while he waits, although it's hard to do in such a scenery, and he soon finds himself sitting on the, now blood-soaked, comforter, which lays stretched out across the bed's expanse, further staining his clothes with the crimson liquid that he spilled so easily a little less than an hour ago. When sitting becomes to aggravating for his mentality to handle, and he _needs_ to move, he starts to pace, paying no mind to the scarlet footprints he leaves imprinted in the white carpets as he walks. The soft, monotonous ticking of the clock, one of the very few items that managed to escape the former terror without any harm or evidence whatsoever, starts to grate on his nerves, and he can't push back the tiny waves of paranoia that start to wash over him every time a sound breaks through the overpowering stillness surrounding him. It doesn't take long for him to sit on the bed again, his knees drawn close to his chest as he hugs them close, trying to be as quiet as possible as he listens for the slightest signs of his desire person arriving. The breath that leaves him is short, shallow, and more often than not he finds himself holding his breath in order to keep his surroundings completely silent, so he won't accidentally miss the one he waits so attentively for.

Time continues to drag on, and as another hour passes a familiar fear starts to settle in the young male's heart – the same fear that always settles whenever he follows what his lover commands. It doesn't take long before the paranoia-induced thoughts start to prod their way into his mind, accompanied with the tiny voices of his fairy friends, and he instinctively hugs himself tighter, willing the ideas and voices to go away – wills them to not be true. _'Why isn't he here yet? Did I do something wrong? Is he displeased? Is he not coming? Has he left me? Does he not want me anymore..?' _Tears soon start to streak down his cheeks as the thoughts continue to grow more horrifying, and the voices of his fairies grow louder, the salty liquid creating a soft shine on his ridiculously pale cheeks. He wills himself to forget the questions he thought before, as the overpowering voices of his fairies answering him only succeeds in upsetting him more. The words his once beloved friends throw at him are terrifying, and he tries his best to block them out, as his master had told him to do. The soft voices whispered words of betrayal to him, telling him not to trust in his beloved, that the one he'd grown so dependent on was merely using him, that he feels no actual affection for the Englishman. But he _knows_ this was a lie – his lover has said so himself. The quiet whispers are nothing but his friends' way of trying to destroy his happiness. That's why he was to forget them – they did nothing but manipulate him. They weren't trying to protect him, as they insisted quite vigorously; they were merely trying to wreck what made him happy.

It took all the blonde had not to break down into hysterics as his fairies' voices grew ever louder, and all the will power in the world couldn't suppress the sobs bubbling in his throat as he cried, his thin frame shaking violently from the effort of trying to control himself. He was so far gone in his misery, his doubts, his _obsession_, that he didn't hear the door click shut or the soft footsteps approach him, his fairies loud screams of warning falling on deaf ears as he did his very best to block out the world around him. A scream nearly escaped him when a warm hand managed to close over his eyes, and had it not been for the soft lips that pressed against the back of his neck for a gentle moment he would have very likely passed out. He didn't, however, instead relaxing back into the body behind him as surprisingly strong arms curl around his waist, holding him close to the individual who embraces him. It's silent for a moment, the only sound being the Englishman's erratic breathing as he tries to calm himself, relishing in the warm feeling of his partner holding him close; of the other's breath brushing ever so slightly over the shell of his ear, sending the faintest of shivers through his body, before the male behind him sighs and finally removes his hand from the blonde's eyes. The subdued of the pair wastes no time in turning back to look at him, and his heart fills with unimaginable joy as the pride he can so clearly see in the other's amber gaze.

"You did so well, Arthur. Master is very proud of you." A wide smile pulls on Arthur's lips as the brunette kisses him gently in praise, his lips lingering just enough to leave the blonde wanting more, but not enough for any hidden desire to be properly fulfilled. But the blonde doesn't press for more, choosing instead to snuggle willingly into the other male's arms as the slightly shorter of the pair examines the Englishman's handiwork. "Yes, you did quite well, indeed… Such a lovely mess you left behind, it almost looks as though you were painting." The words, slightly marred by a thick Italian accent, send a lovely chill through Arthur as the brunette voices his earlier hopes, and he clings ever tighter to his lover. "A rather beautiful design, indeed…" The Italian's voice sounds far-off for a moment, as though his mind is in a different place, but Arthur pays it no mind. The younger of the pair has a tendency to drift into thought after Arthur carries out his instructions, so this is nothing new to him. A soft chuckle leaves the brunette after a couple moments of thinking, and he runs a hand through the blonde strands of his lovely pet, a soft kiss being pressed to the Englishman's forehead before he starts murmuring soft words of praise in his native language. He knows Arthur hasn't a clue what he's saying, and he could easily call the other the worst possible insults and the blonde would still cling to him as he is now, a ridiculously content smile on his face as gentle fingers work their way through the small knots in the Englishman's strands of gold.

"Master, did I do well?" A soft smile graces the Italian's features at the question, so different from the normal idiotic grin he wears in public, or the dark, borderline-sadistic smirk he generally wears after their little assignments, and he nods slowly in answer. "So I can still stay with Master? I can still be his precious doll?" To hear the blonde refer to himself as a doll sends a shiver of excitement down the Italian's spine, and his gentle smile darkens ever so slightly as he once again nods in agreement, resting a hand gently on his lover's cheek and noticing, for the first time, the little smudge of blood on the blonde's pale skin.

"_Sì, amore mio,_ I intend to keep you as my precious and perfect pet for a _very_ long time." A soft blush adorns Arthur's cheeks as his partner licks the blood off his cheek, eliciting a small giggle from the blonde before he is pulled into another kiss, this one lasting a fair bit longer than the former had. By the time the Italian pulls away Arthur's breath has, quite literally, been stolen away, leaving him with a dazed, somewhat love-struck expression. The brunette can't restrain the amused chuckle that escapes him as he lifts the blonde up with strength a very small number of people knew him to possess. He holds the slim body in his arms close, brushing another kiss against the pale, flushed cheeks as he cradles the other carefully. "Sleep now, _amore_, you must be exhausted." The individual in his arms nods quietly at his command, gripping the front of the Italian's coat as he snuggles close, nuzzling his face into the brunette's chest as a soft gesture of affection before his eyes drifted shut peacefully. Once again a rare, loving smile crosses the Italian's features as he looked down at the frail, unconscious male in his arms, although it quickly turns cynical as he switches his attention from the blonde he holds to the deceased bodies he previously neglected to pay attention to. "_Mio fratello caro, amore mio,_ I pray your souls burn in the deepest depths of hell for a very long time." A dark laugh flows from him as he runs a hand through the gelled back, blonde hair of one of the corpses, his grin dark as he messes up the careful hairdo. "I hope the pair of you get to spend your wretched afterlives together, watching each other suffer." With that said he turned away from the scene, his grip unconsciously adjusting on the sleeping Englishman as he leaves, not bothering to glance back at the horror he leaves behind. For the first time in months he feels truly happy, his revenge finally being fulfilled, with the aid of the precious puppet who, unlike many others, has never betrayed him. He is satisfied for now, and concludes that he will take very special care of the beautiful pet he's managed to obtain, treating him as nothing less than perfect until the need to use him arises again.

* * *

><p><strong>'Ello. First things first, I apologize for the fact that Arthur is Out Of Character. I don't know if this bothered anyone, but if it did please allow me to explain; in this work of fiction Arthur is mentally unwell. He is not in his right state of mind, which is why he was so easily manipulated, and is not the cynical Englishman we all love and adore. I apologize if this was a bother, but I hope you can overlook that fact for the sake of the story.<strong>

**With that being said, I truly hope you enjoyed this. This is the third version of it, and I edited over it, so there shouldn't be any mistakes. I'm sorry if I'm wrong. I hope you enjoyed either way, and I would absolutely love it if you reviewed ^^ Grazie!**

**Please note that I rely on Google translator for my Italian translations, so they may not be accurate. Feel free to correct me if they aren't.  
><strong>

**_Italian to English Translations:_**

**_'Sì, amore mio' -_ Yes, my love**

**_'Mio fratello caro, amore mio'_ - My dear brother, my love  
><strong>


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